Inside, carpenters worked to create a clean, spacious surgery, a generously equipped kitchen, a second-floor ward for women and four private rooms for children. A laboratory and pharmacy had taken over several rooms on the Grant Street side of the first floor, not far from the most remarkable acquisition—a clanking, squeaking Otis elevator that Horace felt the continual need to “adjust” even though it had been in operation for less than a week.
Leaving the beehive of activity behind for a few moments was a relief, and with Prince always eager for a jaunt, Thomas had extended his walk long enough that he knew Bertha Auerbach would grow fretful. He continued to his goal for the day—the giant spruce log that lay beached and graying in the dark sand just before the shoreline started to curve out to the spit of land beyond Schmidt’s mill.
He sat on the log for a moment, watching an otter tease Prince, then arose to set out for home. He did not need to call the dog. Prince immediately charged back and followed from in front, as Alvi was fond of saying. Leaving the shore, Thomas strolled up Lincoln Street that now, after a week of blazing sunshine, was baked to burnished bronze. He was exhilarated at being able to push up the incline of the street, the ache in his ribs settled now to a minor nagging.
The step up to Lindeman’s porch was effortless, but the dog remained in the street, first visiting the horse trough for a noisy drink, and then sitting carefully in a patch of shade. Lindeman’s new boy was busy with two women customers, and Thomas paused only long enough to purchase the latest newspaper newly arrived from New York, only three weeks past its publication date.
Eager for news from the East, Thomas settled in one of the rockers on the porch of 101 Lincoln, Prince in attendance. He had been engrossed in the newspaper for a few minutes when Alvi joined him.
“You need to see this,” he said, and folded the paper so she could read it. The advertisement was enormous, printed in such a way that it resembled an actual newspaper article. “Oxypathy!” the headline trumpeted, and then proceeded to introduce the reader, in half a dozen different ways and by impressive testimony from physicians and patients alike, to the Oxypathy Electrical System, absolutely guaranteed to return vital oxygen to the body’s fluids by a “continuous, soothing application of electrical current from the most natural of all sources…the earth’s own carbon.” By connecting the patient to two “comfortably applied” electrical leads, the article exalted, the system sped the gentle electromagnetic current to the body’s ailing system. Even diphtheria, the scourge of children, was not immune to the power of Oxypathy. “Nothing can relieve the choking child as can the process of Oxypathy!” the article proclaimed, and then quoted numerous testimonials from patients, physicians, and research scientists.
“That’s Father,” Alvi said softly. Sure enough, the engraving that was captioned as representing the eminent Dr. Claude Lucier, recently returned to Philadelphia from Paris, was the same engraving that appeared in the frontispiece of the Advisor…Dr. John Haines.
“Indeed it is,” Thomas agreed. “And Dr. Tessier is back as well.” He reached across and tapped one of the sidebar articles.
Alvi’s brow furrowed as she roamed the half-page advertisement until she had found what she sought. “He’s in San Francisco now,” she said, “and for only thirty dollars, you can have this device to heal all your patients, Thomas.”
“I’d like to order one as a curiosity,” Thomas said with a laugh. To have in my office for impossible cases.” He took the paper offered by Alvi. “In a way, I’m not surprised that Zachary is thriving. No doubt he’s even turned his limp into elegant effect. I can see him with his fine suit, patent boots, and a silver-headed cane.”
“I saw Mrs. Beautard on the schedule for this afternoon,” Alvi said, eager for another topic of conversation.
“Yes,” Thomas said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve asked Jake and his crew to go away this afternoon. We need some peace and quiet.”
“Ovariotomy?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. There’s a tumor the size of an orange.”
“Will there be trouble with her new fiancé? I met him yesterday, and I’m not sure she’s any better off than she was with Lawrence.”
“No,” Thomas said. “I suppose not, but believe it or not, Howard Deaton spent a few minutes with him. I’m not sure what he told the man, but he does have an emphatic way of explaining things.” He grinned at Alvi. “Both Bertha and Helvina are assisting, but I can always use more help.”
“Maybe,” she said, stretching back languorously. She rubbed her belly. “I was thinking I might go for a walk myself.”
Thomas reached over and placed his hand on her abdomen, feeling only the slightest, most graceful curve. “Take Prince with you,” he said. “He’s going to have a lot to get used to, Mrs. Parks.”
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